Sometimes I have to wonder Father
If I really am your daughter
There is little we have in common
I know you treat me like a son
You keep many collections
Of silly, worthless possesions
and yet you treat them like gold
Was I once a child so easily sold?
You tell me they're for your future grandchild
I have to sit and contemplate a smile
For I can picture how he or she would enjoy
the plethora of dolls, gumball machines and toys
I love when you look at me and say
this will all be worth thousands someday
But all I dare to see, frankly, is a big mess
The collections you have can be hideous, I confess
Yet I love the way you're so sincere
How you beam at it's growth each year
I know you know you're a pack rat
But it's just one more thing to love about you Dad
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
What a delightful poem. Both the love you have for your father and his for you are revealed. Loving despite any flaws or different values is essential among family members and your poem highlights that so nicely. Sometimes the 'pack-rat' gene skips a generation so your father's collections may indeed be most welcome down the line.